For Want of a Friend
by OnWithTheButter
Summary: Out of his concern for his brother, Mycroft 'takes hostage' one friend of Sherlock's in hopes of a replacement. Pre-A Study in Pink


Mycroft Holmes, for the most part, understood his little brother. He knew the feeling, the rush of knowing that one is smarter than others, superior even. He remembered the thoughts of I-know-what-you-had-for-breakfast-so-would-you-like-me-to-blurt-it-out-even-though-there's-no-normal-explanation-for-how-I-know-just-to-see-your-reaction. He knew how it felt to be rejected and belittled for being different, eerie, weird. In some ways, reading Sherlock was so easy, because they were so alike.

Then there was the little, infuriatingly little that Mycroft could not understand about his brother. He was like a mix of a child and a teenager, so ridiculously immature in his temperament, while being as rebellious-for-the-sake-of-rebelling and secretive as the best of teens. Which was something Mycroft had only observed in others, his own drive in life pushing him past those stages when he himself had been that age. He didn't get it, how Sherlock and himself could be so similar and so vastly opposite.

A sullen expression complete with a jutting and curled lower lip and the pout even visible in his hollow eyes, even the way Sherlock was sitting, feet firmly planted in the suede leather swivel chair, long legs hugged to his chest, a funny image in contrast to the nearly £2,000 suit and long coat he wore, betrayed to _anyone_ how he felt at this moment. _Oh, dear brother…_

"Give it back, Mycroft," the man beneath the black, curly mop of hair firmly demanded the instant his elder brother entered the room.

"Ah…tut-tut, little brother. Making demands before we begin negotiations, are we?"

"Give it back." Sherlock's eyes narrowed in ire, enunciating each word clearly. "You don't understand, Mycroft, how important it is to me." His eyes followed his brother's every move as he calmly shut the door behind himself, making his way to take a seat on the other side of the desk.

"It is a _skull_, Sherlock, a bloody skull."

For a few, heavy moments, Sherlock refused to respond. Suddenly, his face lost its tension as his legs dropped and he shifted to a relaxed sitting position, switching to an expression Mycroft recognized as the smile Sherlock gave before attempting to cut you down with a blade of snide words. "I see you stopped at a bakery this morning. Not only did you clumsily leave the distinct crumbs of a croissant and danish pastry on your desk calendar — running late for work this morning, were we? — but I see you went ahead and ordered a half-dozen doughnuts while you were at it." Sherlock produced a receipt that he had obviously dug out of the rubbish while waiting for Mycroft. "Didn't eat them though, saved them for later? Perhaps feeling guilty about ordering so many calories in your hurry after you so proudly declared your new diet plan a month ago, lovely how that works out."

Mycroft returned the smile with a small sniff of a chuckle. "You and I both know that those type of things don't pass us by, Sherlock, I don't see why you must parade your observations before me, I'm hardly an impressed audience."

Sherlock didn't react with his face, straight as ever, reverting his tone of voice from mocking to demanding. "What do you want from me? I'm fine, I'm behaving, I'm keeping myself busy, what do you want? Why did you force me here?"

Mycroft has called the day before, asking to meet up with Sherlock, which he obviously refused, which Mycroft had known he would and only done it so that it couldn't be said that he didn't offer first. When Sherlock returned that afternoon, he knew immediately that someone had been in his flat, but found only the skull on the mantle missing, and after over half an hour of frantic searches and begging Mrs. Hudson to tell him where it went, he received the hostage note from Mycroft, telling him to meet him at his capitol office at 4:30 sharp or never see the skull again.

"Give me the skull back, Mycroft. I have done nothing wrong."

"For God's sake, Sherlock Holmes, it is a skull. You're thirty years old now, at no age for imaginary friends."

"I have done nothing wrong!" Sherlock repeated himself forcefully.

"Yes, well done," Mycroft commended with the faux tone of an impressed parents, "and in order to ensure your continual well behavior, you will be getting a flat share."

The look of Sherlock's face read as plain as day 'you're kidding'. After a moment with no sarcastic laugh or correction, Sherlock finally replied. "Are you out of your mind? I – me, Mycroft – I can't have a flat mate. You've gone out and picked some god-awful idiot to nag me at every turn, haven't you? You're nuts, I can't have it, it'll be a distraction, and no one could stand to be within thirty meters of me for any length of time."

"I can't continue to support you forever, little brother," he explained in all seriousness. "You have two weeks, anyone at all, it's your choice. There's a big world out there, Sherlock, you'll find a nice flat mate, someone insane enough to put up with you at all hours. Just look, will you?"

"And when can I have the skull back?"

"Patience, Sherlock, patience. Whatever do you keep that things for anyway? It's hardly the only morbid possession of yours, or the only skull, what makes it special, if I may ask?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mumbling slightly. That teenager mentality again. "I talk to it. You know that talking aloud makes you slow down enough to listen to your own thoughts and lay them out straight, posing those thoughts to someone else, a friend say, distances the words a little more, thereby allowing yourself to be an observer of your own being." He glanced at Mycroft, adding a curt "Obviously."

"Ah, as I said, dear, too old for imaginary friends now. I worry that you might drive yourself up the wal, it's time to grow up, please, and find a real friend. If Mummy were still alive, believe me, she would share my sentiments. Now now, brother, if not for me, for Mummy?"

Sherlock only rolled his eyes again.

Smiling warmly, Mycroft produced the beloved skull from the case he had brought in with him, Sherlock very quick to snatch it back and examine it for damage, before holding it close, as if to protect it from the Big Bad Mycroft.

Mycroft let off an intrigued chuckled. _Such a child…_ "Good luck, brother. I am certain that you'll find my proposal less irritating than you want to believe."

He was right. Once Sherlock distanced the idea from the animosity toward his brother, the idea of a flat mate was quite appealing. That is, if there existed a human who didn't mind Sherlock's quirks and staying-up-for-days-on-end and lifestyle in general, if there was ever someone who would stick by his side and not accuse or tear him down or hurt him, a person that would always be there and be trustworthy, that in and of itself would be amazing, and however improbable it was, the idea excited Sherlock.

And over a week later, with only a few days left before Mycroft's timeline ran out — who knew what he would threaten if he hadn't found a babysitter, excuse me, _flat mate_ by then – Sherlock was still muttering in the lab at St. Bart's about "Who would ever want to share a flat with me?"

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**A/N:** **Hooray, my first Sherlock fic! Haha, honestly this started out as an exploration of Mycroft and Sherlock's relationship, and ended up…well. Either way, I hope it was enjoyed.**


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